


Inspiration

by exchequered (kesterstjohn)



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-19 15:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15512454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesterstjohn/pseuds/exchequered
Summary: Necessity. Invention. Isn't there a saying about that?





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrrhical (anoyo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/gifts).



Zoroaster picks the lock on the door to Leonardo’s studio and lets himself in. The sack jostles against the small of his back as he strides across the floor, swerving to avoid an easel here, a scale model there. He deposits his burden in a cool corner of the studio, aware that some of the items he’s acquired will go off if left unattended for any length of time.

He stretches, groaning in pleasure, then relaxes, slouches around Leo’s space, touching first this, then that, smiling in recollection of good memories, good fights, good fucks; frowning at remembrances less pleasant, arguments and slights and the perennial irritation of Leo’s diffidence.

No, that’s not right. Leo’s never been backward in coming forward. Too mouthy by far, sometimes. Not as mouthy as Zoroaster, but then, Zoroaster de Peretola needs to be the master of something he can call his own. That’s the problem with being friends with a genius, especially a genius who can turn his pretty hands to anything. It doesn’t leave much else for the ordinary people to be good at.

Zoroaster picks up a flagon of wine and uncorks it, passes it beneath his nose to check the quality. A little sour—in this heat, it’s a wonder it hasn’t turned to vinegar—but better than nothing. He swills some around his mouth then takes a longer gulp. Like most things, indifferent wine gets better the more you do it. Or drink it, in this case.

He returns to the sack and takes out the items Leo had requested. Now _this_ is what he’s good at: Acquiring things. He knows people, a lot of people, and because he’s open-handed and charming and—he’s not going to lie—damn good-looking, those people are willing to do things for him. Thus he’s able to keep Leo well supplied with whatever weird shit his friend requires for his latest experiments and inventions.

He gets paid for his effort, of course. Not always promptly, but Leo makes it right in the end. And always, always, Zoroaster gets an even greater prize than coin when he presents his friend with the requested items: Leo’s smile. Leo’s laughter. Leo’s attention, white-hot and blazing.

Even if it only lasts a heartbeat, it makes Zoroaster’s toes curl and his palms grow damp. It makes his breath hitch and his cock swell.

Just thinking about Leo’s smile, his forearms, his dark hair brushing the back of his collar, is enough to make Zoroaster hard. He grunts in annoyance and, hands on hips, studies the objects he’s brought here this afternoon. It’s a bizarre selection, even by Leo’s standards. What the fuck kind of invention needs a dead pigeon, a pot of purified saltpetre, a painted ostrich egg from an Etruscan tomb, and a large cog from the clock mechanism of the church of San Zenobi?

Maybe it’s not for an invention. Maybe it’s for a spell.

He smiles. What would he, Zoroaster, named for the greatest of Eastern magicians, make of such ingredients? (Never mind that Leo says that the original Zoroaster was a philosopher, that sounds as boring as a boil on the bum.)

He strokes the breast of the dead pigeon, trails his fingers over the curve of the ostrich egg with its painted figures of griffins and winged serpents. He could make a love potion, at a pinch. Mix blood and feathers with crushed ancient ostrich egg, add a little saltpetre and stir well… He’s not sure how the piece of clock mechanism would come into it. And anyway, love potions don’t work. 

Abandoning his attempts at alchemy, he flops onto Leo’s bed. The sheets are thrown back, twisted up into exclamatory shapes. Zoroaster lays face-down and inhales Leo’s sleepy, sexy scent imprinted upon the mattress. His erection perks up, and he takes a deeper breath, opening his mouth against the sheets as if he could taste hot, hard flesh.

He reaches down to adjust himself and brushes against a solid shape. Not his cock, although that’s responding just nicely, thank you, and doing a fine job of burrowing into the rucked linen sheets. The ropes creak beneath the bed in time to the lazy thrust of his hips, then Zoroaster sighs and stills, rolls onto his side just enough to work his Tarot cards free.

Conscious of the languid heat of the afternoon and the low simmering of desire in his blood, Zoroaster shuffles the pack with desultory interest. He draws a card, flipping it over to reveal the Moon. An involuntary hum escapes him. Confusion, lack of clarity, especially in relationships. Could his psyche be any more obvious?

He takes another card and places it next to the Moon. One of the Minor Arcana, this time: The Seven of Coins. Well, that’s more promising. Reward after a period of hard labour. Zoroaster grins. He knows the kind of hard labour he’d most like to indulge in, and with whom. He runs a hand over the rumpled sheets, imagining all the effort he’d expend on pleasuring Leo. Oh yeah, hard, _hard_ labour.

One final card. It’s the Magician.

Zoroaster snorts. He slides the cards back into the pack and returns them to his pocket, then rolls onto his back. For a while he empties his mind, stares at the cracks in the ceiling and looks at the sketches pinned to the walls. Thoughts begin to circle. The Magician can signify the start of something new. Something creative. He sits up, inspired. Those items he’s brought—why not take a leaf out of Leo’s book and _invent_ something?

Osmosis is totally a thing, right? He’s watched a genius at work for years. He must’ve absorbed something in all that time. 

Can’t hurt to try.

He gets up, pads around the studio until he locates a sketchbook and a thin charcoal stick, then he returns to the bed and, sprawling across its width, starts work. From his vantage point on the other side of the room, he draws each object in as detailed a form as he can manage. And if he adds a feature here or there, subtly improving upon what nature intended or what reality presents, well, this is invention.

It’s not like his scribbles can compare to Leo’s art, of course, but soon enough that ceases to matter as Zoroaster racks his brain for something, a mechanism or a weapon or a toy, that would incorporate all four items from the sack. He unfastens his doublet, unlaces his shirt, and scratches at his chest. Inventing is thirsty work. Up he gets again to drink more wine. He paces the studio, peering at Leo’s sketches and models until an idea emerges from the grape-soused soup of his mind.

Back to bed, and the charcoal stick flies across the pages. He makes notes, as he’s seen Leo do, estimating measurements and weights and speed. The design takes a wrong turn, but he corrects it, inspiration flowing through him like ichor. He feels vital, buoyant, pleasure like an orgasm tingling at the base of his spine. He fills four pages with elaborate sketches and blueprints, and now he’s flagging.

There’s no wine left. Not even a drop. Zoroaster considers the pipe but decides against it. He wants to be coherent when Leo returns. He needs his wits about him to explain his great theoretical work. And theoretical it will remain, for although he’s found a place in his incredible, earth-shattering, world-beating design for the cog and the ostrich egg and the saltpetre—the pigeon, he’s decided, must be for dinner—he has no clear idea of what, exactly, holds all these things together.

He’s deep in thought, rubbing idly at the charcoal smudges on his hands and on the sheets, when he hears the floorboards creak.

Zoroaster tenses. He only relaxes when a familiar weight crawls onto the bed, crawls over him, bracketing him in place with arms and legs tucked in tight. A familiar scent teases at him: Leo’s body heat and the stink of the Arno; the smell of the streets, spices and wine and humanity.

“Afternoon, Zo. What are you doing?”

He has the sudden impulse to hide his designs, but resists it. Zoroaster spreads out the pages so Leo can see them, and waits for judgement.

Leo’s breaths are soft in his ear. Warmth builds between them. The buttons on Leo’s doublet dig into the light padding of his own garment. A strand of hair tickles his cheek as Leo leans over his shoulder to examine a drawing in more detail. The movement brings them closer together, Leo’s cock nestling hard and interested against the muscular swell of Zoroaster’s arse, and he pushes back and up in invitation.

“It wouldn’t work,” Leo says, and for a second, two seconds, Zoroaster misunderstands and his heart plummets, until Leo makes a thoughtful sound and says, “It _could_ work, with some amendments. May I—”

Zoroaster loosens his grip on the charcoal and lets it fall. Leo dives for it just as Zoroaster rolls over, taking Leo with him and tangling them both in the sheets. Grinning, heart beating fast, he pins Leo. “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

“Apparently so, according to Plato.” Leo’s eyebrows quirk upward. “So you’re a philosopher now, huh?”

“Something like that,” Zoroaster says, and leans down to kiss him.


End file.
